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BUDDY BALLADS 



p\ 



BY BERTON BRALEY 

BUDDY BALLADS 

IN CAMP AND TRENCH 

A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THINGS AS THEY ARE 

SONGS OF THE WORKADAY WORLD 



NEW YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



Buddy Ballads 

Songs of the A. E. F. 

by 
Berton Braley 

Author of "A Banjo at Armageddon," "Things 
as They Are," etc., etc. 



rsew York 
Kjeorge ti. Doran (company 



>^ 



<p"'^^ 






^ 



COPYRIGHT, 1919, 
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



Oul 15 1919 



FMNTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMEBICA 



©CI.A5:i62;]4 



TO 

LESLIE W. QUIRK 
M. T. D., A. E. F. 
An American Soldier 

This book of verse 

about American Soldiers 

is Dedicated 



MUCH of the verse in this volume has 
appeared in the Popular Magazine, 
Collier's Weekly, Life, The Woman's World, 
The New York World, Everybody's Maga- 
zine, Judge, and The Saturday Evening Post, 
and acknowledgments are due to the editors 
and publishers of these journals for permis- 
sion to use the verse in book form. 



CONTENTS 



Page 

True Music 13 

Some Community 15 

Altered 16 

S. O. S 18 

The Bombproof er 21 

The Battle of Paris 23 

The Late Arrival 25 

In Hospital 27 

The M.'p 29 

A.W.O.L 31 

For Service 33 

Limberfingers 35 

Convoy 37 

Night at the Front 39 

His Detail 41 

"The Amateurs" 43 

Mud 46 

Aerial Adventurers 48 

The Student Aviator 49 

Futures 51 

Archie 54 

Tribute 56 

The Little Guy 58 

The Army Doctor 60 

Frenchy 62 

The Doughboy 64 

The Runner 67 

Anzacs 69 

The Shavetail 72 

Tommy 74 

Engineers 76 

The Smokes #78 

The Regular •79 



CONTENTS 



Page 

The Marines 8i 

The Yid Battalion 83 

"Buddy" 85 

"Son Fairy Ann" 87 

Knowledge 89 

Fed Up 91 

The Hidden Things 93 

Ambition 95 

The Lost Buddy 96 

The Fighting Edge 98 

"I'll Tell the World" 100 

Wonderment 102 

The Lesson 104 

The Question 107 

The Two Crosses 109 

The Big Advance iii 

Speculation 113 

Pride 115 

The Return 116 



l«I 



BUDDY BALLADS 



BUDDY BALLADS 



TRUE MUSIC 

THESE boys have won to glory 
In battle everywhere, 
Tremendous is their story 
And yet the bard's despair; 
For though their deeds astounding 
Thrill all your heart and brain, 
They'd jeer the minstrel sounding 
A fine heroic strain. 



They speak of war's endeavor 
When men are mowed like wheat. 
Of things that live forever. 
In slang of field and street; 
Seek you for tales of duties 

Where trenches run with blood. 
They grin, and talk of "cooties" 
Of "army chow" and mud. 

What though their fame hereafter 

Shall gleam in living fire? 
.The singer courts their laughter 

Unless he strikes his lyr« 
In accents syncopated 

And makes the cat-gut thrum 
To simple music, freighted 

With tunes that they can hum. 
[13] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



TRUE MUSIC (continued) 

So, if their songs lack splendor 

Of deeds that echo far 
It is because they render 

Our soldiers as they are, 
But if you care to hear it 
The faith they will not own- 
The true heroic spirit 
Is in the undertone! 



[I4l 



BUDDY BALLADS 



SOME COMMUNITY 

THERE'S a bunch of sores on my poor 
left arm 
Which has swelled like a country hilly, 
For I'm filled chock full with a husky swarm 

Of anti-disease bacilli. 
I'm doped with germs of the well-known grippe 

And my system is vaccinated 
With bugs of smallpox, typhoid and pip; 
I'm excessively populated. 

When time is slack on the doctors' hands 

With a vaccine point they nick me. 
Or a hypo filled with a dozen brands 

Of bugs is used to prick me. 
If the census bureau should try to count 

The germs in my tissues lurking 
Before they'd total the whole amount 

They'd perish from overworking. 

I thought when I joined with the U. S. A. 

And gave up my life civilian, 
I'd be just one in the mighty fray 

Instead of which I'm a trillion. 
My muscles ache and my arm is sore 

So that nary disease can harm me. 
And I'm sailing nov/ for a foreign shore 

Each drop of my blood an army! 
[15] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



ALTERED 

YOU wouldn't know your Percy now, 
There is tan upon his snow-white 
brow. 
When he came he was a sissy 
And his ways were very prissy 
But he's undergone a change somehow; 
He was really quite a model 
Of a perfect molly-coddle 
But you wouldn't know your Percy now. 

You wouldn't know your Percy now. 

At the first he scorned the army chow. 
He was used to dainty dishes 
Cooked according to his wishes 

But we took him on a hike — and wow ! 
You should see him fill his mess-kit 
With the food to swell his weskit, 

No, you wouldn't know your Percy now. 

You wouldn't know your Percy now. 

He was one to whom the swells cow-tow 
Now he pals with Mike the baker, 
And with Tim the boiler-maker 

And with Jack who sailed a garbage scow; 
What the army made him see was 
They were better men than he was 

And you wouldn't know your Percy now. 
[i6] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



ALTERED (continued) 

You wouldn't know your Percy now. 

His chest was thirty-two, I vow. 
Now it bulges like a barrel 
And he cleaned up Pat O'Farrel 

In a recent little friendly row ; 

For at last he's joined the crowd of 
Husky chaps worth being proud of 

And you wouldn't know your Percy now ! 



[i7l 



BUDDY BALLADS 



S.O.S. 

YES, when we joined the army we were put in Olive 
Drab 
But now our service uniforms depend on what we 
do, 
Sometimes a cobbler's apron is the garment that we 
grab, 
The white coat of a baker or a fireman's dingy blue ; 
Our looks won't make you proud of us for there's a 
motley crowd of us 
Who keep things moving forward to the first-line 
fighting guys. 
The chow and clothes by tons for them, the powder 
and the guns for them, 
For we're the rummy outfit known as "Service of 
Supplies." 

Up at the Front they say, "Oh, yes. 

It's pretty soft for the S.O.S." 

And I s'pose they're right, for all we fight 

Is weather, and time, and such; 
Laying the thousands of tracks or more 
Where there was nothing but swamp before. 

And being told "That ain't much." 
For all we hear in our strain and stress 

Is, "Pretty soft for the S.O.S." 
[i8] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



S.O.S. (continued) 

Our C.O.s only stick to work for eighteen hours a day 
And all they ever ask of us is just about the same, 
We do a job like Panama to while the time away 

Erect ten miles of building as an idle sort of game ; 
With docks and much machinery we decorate the 
scenery, 
Assemble locomotives at the rate of five an hour. 
Excuses cannot go with us and sheer results must 
show with us. 
For we supply the doughboys with their hardest 
hitting power. 

But still they say at the Front, "Oh, yes. 
It's pretty soft for the S.O.S." 

And p'raps it's true, for all we do 

Is make a new map of France, 
Juggle with freight by the cubic mile 
And fit two million of men in style. 

To move when the word's "Advance !" 
Cinch? Why sure, it's a pipe, I guess. 
Soft, oh soft, for the S.O.S. 

We drive the spiles for jetties and we build a dozen 
quays. 
We bake the bread of armies and we mend their 
shirts and shoes, 
We yank out all the cargoes of the ships from overseas 
And we send 'em up on trucks and trains for fight- 
ing men to use. 
We have our bunks and creep in *em when we have 
time to sleep in 'em, 
The Gothas come and bomb us now and then before 
we rise, 

[19] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



S.O.S. (continued) 

We do our job and sweat for it and all we ever get 
for it 
Is knocks for "seeking safety in the Service of Sup- 
plies." 

For everywhere that we go I guess 

We hear, "It's soft for the S.O.S." 

So we grin and bear, but you bet we care 
When they sneer at the service crew. 

For we had our job and we didn't shirk 

But did our best with our daily work 
And that's all a man gang can do, 

But the only credit we get is, "Yes, 

It's pretty soft for the S.O.S.'* 



[w] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE BOMBPROOFER 

SOFT? Say, listen, you with the golden stripe 
Showin* a piece of flyin' shrapnel hit you, 
Me, I'm talkin', got a few words to pipe 

Though if I done the way I feel, I'd hit you ; 
Soft, I've had it — 'twasn't no fault of mine 

It was for soldier's work I joined this army. 
Not to be anchored, miles from the battle line, 
Where there is nothin' comes along to harm me. 

Orders is orders, yours for a trench. 

Mine to stick here 'cause I parleyed the French, 

I didn't want it, but that was my stunt. 

Me, who had dreamed about life at the front ! 

Soft? Say, Buddy, maybe you think it's fun 

When I return, with fellers that's been in battle, 
Meet my folks an' tell 'em that all I done 

Was stayin' here, interpretin' Frenchies* prattle; 
Ask for transfer? I've tried every way on earth. 

Told my Captain, "I wanted to fight in France, sir. 
Not to linger, fillin' a bomb proof berth !" 

"This is the place you're needed," was my answer. 

Orders is orders ; yours to the spot 
Where all the shells an' the gas make it hot. 
Mine to be doin' a job that is tame 
Wishin' to hell I was playin* the game! 

[21] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE BOMBPROOFER (continued) 

Soft is right ; but not what I came here for. 

Me that was sick of things I was doin* daily. 
Me, expectin' a different life in war, 

Me, who, seekin* for thrills, enlisted gaily. 
Soft, you said it. I sleep in a comfy bed 

Dreamin* of war, wishin' that I was in it, 
Soft for me, who'd rather be up there, dead. 

Than in this job, hatin* it every minute. 

Orders is orders — you got your chance 
Glory an' hardship of service in France, 
I've et my heart out with envyin' 5'^ou, 
See the point, Buddy, all right then, I'm 
through ! 



[32] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE BATTLE OF PARIS 

I COMES in right straight from the trenches 
An', pipin' what's round me to see, 
I meets an' American soldier 

Who's dressed up for afternoon tea ; 
I says to him, "Buddy, I'm askin* 

What duty they've picked you out for? 
You're dolled up, by heck, but your face looks a 
wreck. 
Say, what have you done in the war?" 

"I fought in the Battle of Paris 

For eighteen long months," he replies, 
"Repellin' the spells of the mademoiselles 

That's buzzin' around here like flies ; 
My right arm's worn out from salutin' 

These shavetails an* captings, by gosh ; 
I fought in the Battle of Paris, 

It's harder than fightin* the Boche !" 

He gives a sad smile an' he mutters, 

"You've had a tough time up your way. 
But you didn't face regulations 

That's changed twenty times every day; 
You didn't get ten francs subsistence 

Where chow alone costs twenty odd, 
An' M.P.s just flock growlin' 'pass,' every block. 

Along o' your whole promenade. 
[23] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE BATTLE OF PARIS (continued) 
"I fought in the Battle of Paris 

For glory I hadn't a chance, 
I drove a side-car for a Louie whose bar 

Was won by the way he could dance; 
I've three golden stripes for my service 

I've never packed helmet or gun, 
But — fight in the Battle of Paris 

An' see how you like it, old son." 

Well me, I just looks at that feller 

An' thinks what the poor boob's been through, 
An' says to him, "Bud, I've seen danger an' blood. 

But I ain't no braver than you. 
You've fought in the Battle of Paris 

An' sure show the wear an' the tear. 
An' just so you'll know how you stand with ms, 
Bo, 

I'll slip you my old Croix de Guerre !" 



[24l 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE LATE ARRIVAL 
(Who found it "fini" when he came). 

I FEEL just like a kid who's schemed an' planned 
For joinin' with the circus in some town. 
Lured by the gilded wagons an' the band, 

An' who arrives, an' finds the canvas down. 
The seats piled up, the cages locked an' tight. 

The troupe still there, but with no place to go. 
An', in the dim dawn's cold an' pallid light, 
The sheriff in possession of the show! 

The circusmen may come around an' say, 

"Young feller, this here game is on the punk. 
You get hard work, bum grub, no chanct to play, 

An' half the time the ground is where you bunk ; 
You gotta fight with roughnecks everywhere, 

You have no home an' mighty little coin. 
Take it from us, kid, you're in luck for fair 

To have the show blow up before you join." 

They may be right, but that young kid will feel, 

Sorry the outfit went upon the shelf, 
An' wish, in spite of what the wise ones spiel 

He'd had a chanct to try the thing himself. 
No matter how or where he may exist, 

An' whether he is poor or has the cash, 
He'll always think of things that he has missed 

By comin' when the show has went to smash. 
[25] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE LATE ARRIVAL (continued) 

An' that's the way with me about this war. 

You guys that's tried it claim the graft was bum, 
But none the less it's what I came here for, 

An' now I've missed it, well, I'm sort of glum ; 
You say I'm lucky, landin' when I did. 

Perhaps you're right, I guess you ought to know. 
But all my life I'll be just like that kid 

Who came too late an* found — a busted show! 



[36] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



IN HOSPITAL 

NURSE, here is another brave hero who wants to 
go back to the front, 
He's wounded in seventeen places from pullin* some 

kind of a stunt 
Out there where the gas is the thickest an' bullets an* 

shells fill the air. 
An* now, lyin' soft in a hospital bed, he's longin' to 

hurry back there! 
You say there ain't any such soldier? I guess it must 

be you ain't seen 
How thousands of wounded is talkin* — accordin' to 

this magazine — 
Of runnin' right back to the trenches the minute they 

find they are well. 
An* leavin' these hospital quarters to step in the mid- 
dle of hell ! 

But you know an* I know they're lyin', you bet. 
They toss out that bunk for a fresh cigarette. 
We're willin* to go when they order us back 
But no one is achin' to risk a new crack. 
This "just-let-me-at-'em-again" stuff they pull 
Is nothin* but bull, Nurse, just nothin' but bull! 

Go back to the rats an* the cooties, the cold an* the 

rain an* the mud, 
The whiz-bangs, the H.E.s an* shrapnel, the gas an' 

the stink an* the blood? 

[27] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



IN HOSPITAL (continued) 

We do it, of course, it's our duty, an* part of the job 

we have got. 
But that ain't no sign we're enthusin' or cheerin' a 

hell of a lot. 
For we've had our taste of the business, an' we know 

the glory of war. 
An* take it from us, little sister, it's nothin' we're 

hankerin* for; 
A hospital's comfy an* pleasant, the front is unhealthy 

an' rough. 
An* when a guy says that he wants to go back, he's 

throwin' some kind of a bluff. 
The fact is we go when we're ordered, it's something 

we came here to do, 
But Gosh, Nurse, you know how we hate it, an* Gosh, 

we'll be glad when we're through! 

They're stallin*, just stallin', the guys who assert. 
They ache to go back to the smells an* the dirt. 
They're talkin* for glory, not knowin', poor tykes, 
Tain't glory for no one to do what he likes ; 
But when you go back, an' go back with a grin 
In spite of the fact that you dread it like sin. 
That's bein' a soldier, a guy who don't pull 
No sign of the bull. Nurse, no sign of the bull ! 



[«81 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE M. P. 

NOBODY loves the M. P. 
Gosh, but we're misunderstood. 

Though it's a fact 

We always act 
Just for the soldier's own good. 
Shield him an' keep him from harm 

Watch over him like a father; 
But, does he treat us the same as a son, 
Show us he's grateful for all that we done, 

Thank us, with smiles, for our bother? 
Not on your life, he's as sore as can be. 

Nobody loves the M. P. 



When a man's quartered in town 
Where his temptations are big. 

We keep him straight 

Early an' late. 
Sheltered from sin— in the brig! 
He'd be forgettin' his pass 

If we weren't there to remind him; 
But, does he show that he's pleased with our care? 
No, all he does is to grumble an' swear. 

Thankless an' grouchy we find him, 
Cussin' ourselves an' our whole pedigree, 

Nobody loves the M. P. 
[29] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE M. P. (continued) 

Soldier in line is the same. 
Though we do things for the best, 

Helpin' him fight 

By directin' him right. 
He merely calls us a pest ; 
When we are kindly, but firm, 

Givin' him lessons in duty, 
How does he take it? He'll grunt an* he'll grouse 
Sayin', between an M. P. an' a louse, 

He'd rather live with the cootie ! 
Sure it ain't right, but you've got to agree 

Nobody loves the M. P. 

When I am done with my bit 
Here on the earth, an' I fly 

Up where St. Pete has the doorkeeper's seat 

He'll look me straight in the eye. 
Pipe my brassard an' my hat. 

Then he'll remark, in a minute, 
"Buddy, I'm sorry, but there's two or three 
Doughboys up here, an* this place wouldn't be 

Heaven for them, with you in it; 
That'll be hell for you, sure, but you see. 

Nobody loves an M. P.!" 



[30J 



BUDDY BALLADS 



A. W. O. L. 

AW. O. L. — yes. Bud, that's me! 
• Six — months — up — front; some — long — hard — 
spell 
Couldn't — get — no — leave, so — you — can — see 
Why— I— just— went A. W. O. L. 

-ci l-.^'ig as there was fightin' I didn't ask to go, 
I wasn't gonna be a yellow pup. 
If other guys could stand it. You bet I wouldn't show 

That any kind of game could do me up. 
I slept in rain an' drizzle an' I et my meals from tin, 
An* if I felt like blubberin* I'd set my teeth an' grin ; 
But when we got to billets an' it looked as if we'd stay, 
An' leave was plumb denied me, why I simply went 
away. 

My clothes an* my features was muddy 
But under the mud was a smile. 

For after my laborin'. Buddy, 
I thought I'd just play for awhile. 

I beat it on the railway an* when the guard came by 

I muttered "ne comprend" to all he said. 
An* so I came to Paris, to Paris, Bud, an' I 

Have done my best to paint the city red; 
I've played around regardless, I've bought the 
chickens wine 

[31] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



A. W. O. L. (continued) 

I've stood on cafe tables an* sang "The World is 

Mine," 
At last the M. P/s got me an' they put me in the coop. 
But when I think of all my fun, why I don't give a 

whoop ! 

I beat it from camp in a hurry 
An' now I must pay for the crime. 

But though I catch hell, I should worry. 
For I've had one hell of a time ! 

A. W. O. L., yes. Bud, that's — me, 

Six — months — up — front, some — long — ^hard — spell, 
Leave— or — no — leave — I've — had — my — spree, 

I'm— glad— I— went A. W. O. L, 



[32] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



FOR SERVICE 



SNUB-NOSED and short as to wheelbase, spidery- 
like as to frame 
Known as the little "tin Lizzie," doing its work just 

the same, 
Right on the job when it's needed, eager for any old 

stunt 
Dodging the shells and the shell-holes, bumping along 

to the front; 
Ambulance carrying blesses, camion loaded with 

chow. 
Rattling along like a messkit, but always arriving, 

somehow, 
Some little soldier, the Flivver, tough little, rough 

little car, 
Fit for the hardest of service, ready whenever you 

are! 



Hang a set of medals on the Flivver, 

(It'll shake 'em off, but never mind) 
It was always certain to deliver 

Service of the necessary kind. 
It set your teeth arattle as it jounced you into 
battle 

It joggled up your stomach and your liver. 
It wasn't any beauty but it sure was there for duty 

So hang a bunch of medals on the Flivver. 

[33] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



FOR SERVICE (continued) 

Big cars are better to look at, but, when they're mired 

in the muck 
Hark how they honk for assistance, calling a Tin 

Lizzie truck, 
Funny and battered and noisy, watch how the Flivver 

makes good. 
There is a peach of an engine under that little tin 

hood; 
Nothing but shell-fire can stop it, and I have seen, now 

and then. 
How, when it's half shot to pieces, it'll start going 

again. 
Say, if they there weren't quite so many, causing the 

chickens to scoot 
When I caught sight of a Flivver, I'd bring my hand 

to salute. 

Hang a set of medals on the Fliwer 

D. S. C. and also Croix de Guerre, 
You can count upon it to deliver 

All the goods its built for, anywhere. 
Wherever it may take you it'll bounce you, it'll 
shake you. 

Till your body and your nerves are all aquiver, 
But you have the fun of knowing that you'll get 
where you are going, 

So hang a set of medals on the Flivver! 



IS4] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



LIMBERFINGERS 

HE wasn't so good with a rifle, he couldn't throw 
hand grenades much 
And when in a fight, though his nerve was all right, 
he got in the other men's way; 
But put him before a piano, believe me, the kid had 
a touch 
He knew every note that had ever been wrote, oh, 
Buddy, that soldier could play. 
He'd make you feel classical music way down to the 
tip of your spine; 
He'd make your blood thrill and the heart of you 
fill with songs and with marches of war 
Or set you to swinging with rag time that bubbled and 
tingled like wine — 
Then sudden, you'd find that with tears you was 
blind, you didn't know why or what for. 



He'd find an old battered piano, somewhere in a 
ruined chateau 
With half the strings broke and the keyboard a 
joke and both of the pedals napoo 
But if all the white keys was missing, he'd play on 
the black ones, and so 
He'd give us an air we could whistle to there, and 
say, but it cheered us beaucoup. 
[35l 



BUDDY BALLADS 



LIMBERFINGERS (continued) 

For some guys is best in the trenches, and some guys 
is best down at Tours 
But he did his bit with each key that he hit, his 
fingers was magical things 
That wove us a web of enchantment around all we 
had to endure 
And gave us the heart to go on with our part, by 
tunes from a boxful of strings. 

He wasn't so much with a shovel, though willing and 
anxious enough 
His hands wasn't made for the ditch diggers' trade, 
but he could dig down in your soul 
And bring up your dreams and your visions to make 
you forget life was tough 
Forget, for a time, all the muck and the slime, of 
some damn detestable hole; 

No matter how weary or sleepless or worn with the 
march he might be 
He'd bring from the keys any tune that you please 
if there was a keyboard to try 
And if I was handing out medals I'd slip him the 
old D. S. C. 
The service he give was to help us to live — and 
help us, if need be, to die! 



[36] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



CONVOY 

BLACK night folding and surrounding us 
Camions and batteries of guns. 
No light save the shell-fire pounding us 

Searching for the route the convoy runs. 
Hey, you! Throw that coffin nail away. 

Where you think you are, in Central Park? 
Poor stew, want to give our trail away? 
Bringing up a convoy in the dark. 

Road's clogged, full of troops ahead of us. 

Now we've hit a hole, the motor dies. 
Wheel's bogged, think what's being said of us 

Where the Front is waiting for supplies ! 
What, stuck? No, she gives a cough again 

Moves a little, slow as Noah's Ark, 
Here's luck, give her gas, we're off again. 

Bringing up the convoy in the dark. 

Whee — ee, crash! Listen, where did THAT one go? 

Seems to me they're getting pretty near. 
Some smash! Now I hear a fat one go 

Whining through the inky atmosphere. 
Whoa there, held up with our load again 

Fritzie must have landed on his mark. 
Don't swear, they will clear the road again — 

Bringing up a convoy in the dark. 
[37I 



BUDDY BALLADS 



CONVOY (continued) 

Crawl, crawl. Guys in back are cussing us, 

Powder truck's a little in advance, 
Boys all, wouldn't Fritz be mussing us 

If he hit THAT camion by chance! 
Guns, chow, powder and machinery, 

Not a light to go by, not a mark. 
That's how, groping through the scenery 

We bring up the convoy after dark. 



[38I 



BUDDY BALLADS 



NIGHT AT THE FRONT 

NIGHT at the front — an' the star shells soarin' 
Lightin' up No Man's Land, 
Mutter of men, an' the big boys roarin' 

Back where the gunners stand. 
Squelch of the mud, for the skies are pourin' 
Rotten — ^but ain't it grand? 

Night on the Front — an' the rockets glarin' 

Signals, I guess, an' now 
Up through the dark our planes are tearin* 

There goes a gas shell "pow!" 
Look, where the night barrage is flarin* 

Makin' a fearful row! 

Night on the Front — an' you slip an' tumble 

Huntin' the place you're bound, 
Jerry's batteries roll an' rumble 

Searchin' our hidin' ground, 
Archie chatters, an' "bumble, bumble'* 

Gothas are dronin' round! 

Night on the Front— an' the front is seethin* 

Bubblin' with death an' hate. 
Stretched along like a dragon breathin' 

Flames of a fiery fate 
Or one of them Moloch gods that's heathen, 

Cruel an' fierce, but Great! 
[39] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



NIGHT AT THE FRONT (continued) 

Night on the Front — an* machine guns drummin* 

Spatterin' mud, lay low! 
Wow! Hear that? It's a big one hummin', 

Lord, what a gorgeous show! 
Night on the front — our relief is comin* 

Pick up your pack, let's go! 



t4ol 



BUDDY BALLADS 



HIS DETAIL 

WHAT I come in for 
When I joined this war 
Was to go an' fight the wicked Hun, 

Face the horrid Teut 

On the field, an' shoot 
Regiments of Boches with my gun; 

So I took my chance 

Sailed for Sunny France 
(Where I've never even seen the sun) 

And, it seems to me. 

Since I crossed the sea, 
Diggin' in the mud is all I've done. 

What I do is dig 
Little holes an' big. 

Rifle pits an' trenches 

Full of rats an* stenches. 
Dugouts that are anything but trig. 

Rifle? Oh, I've got it. 

But I've never shot it. 
All I do is dig, 

dig, 
dig! 

When I've done my trick 
With my spade an' pick, 
When I think my job is finished, then 

[41] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



HIS DETAIL (continued) 

Orders comes to go | 

On ahead, an* so 'i 

I must start to diggin* in again ; 

I have tossed enough 

Of this mud an* stuff 
For to build six pyramids, or ten, 

This man's war has shown 

That the shovel's grown 
Greater than the rifle — or the pen ! J 

What I do is dig 

Little holes an* big, J 

In the midst of shellfire 
Shrapnel, gas an' hell fire, 
Rootin' for my shelter, like a pig ; ,| 

I can't tell no story . 

Full of gleam and glory /^ 

All I did was dig, 

dig, 
dig! 



[4»]l 



BUDDY BALLADS 



"THE AMATEURS" 

(German papers, before the big drive, spoke of Ameri- 
can troops as "flabby"). 

A YEAR ago the captain was instructor in a col- 
lege. 
The sergeant was a plumber and the corporal a 
clerk, 
The privates had no glimmering of military knowl- 
edge 
They'd never run across it in their ordinary work; 
But in today's dispatches there's a simple little item 
Describing how this company went up against the 
Boche, 
And smashed a Hun battalion that was coming up to 
fight *em, 
And took two German companies as prisoners, 
b'gosh ! 



The Prussian has his veterans 
And thinks there are no better *uns. 
He said our boys were flabby and the greenest of the 
green. 
He counted on defeating them 
But v/hen it came to meeting them 
His veterans departed very quickly from the scene. 

[43] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



"THE AMATEURS" (continued) 

The Captain was a greenhorn at the military science 
But he flanked the German Major and he sent him to 
the rear, 
The shavetails had few tactics but a heap of self re- 
liance. 
The sergeants and the corporals were novices, it's 
clear ; 
They weren't machine-made soldiers and you never 
would have picked 'em 
As equal to the Boches in the goosestep style of war, 
But when they got in battle with the Teutons, why 
they licked 'em, 
And that is just exactly what we sent them over 
for. 

The Prussians were the gabby ones. 
They called our soldiers, "Flabby ones," 
"No match for troops of Kultur who had waded deep 
in blood," 
And it was quite a jolt to them. 
In fact, a thunderbolt to them. 
To find these flabby Yankees trampling Germans in 
the mud! 

The Captain wasn't expert in the art of killing babies. 
The shavetails and the sergeants and the corporals 
and men 
Were not innoculated with the military rabies 

Which crucifies old ladies "as a lesson" now and 
then; 
They were too soft and flabby for that Teuton brand 
of slaughter, 

[44]' 



BUDDY BALLADS 



"THE AMATEURS" (continued) 

They'd never quite been hardened to that special 
point of view. 
To smash the German soldiers was what made 'em 
cross the water 
And — that's a job it's evident they're tough enough 
to do! 



[45} 



BUDDY BALLADS 



MUD 

NO, it isn't the shells or the horrible smells 
(Though they give us quite trouble enough) 
And it isn't patrol that brings chills to the soul 

Nor the danger and all of that stuff; 
It isn't the "whee !" of the flying H.E. 

Nor the bullet which lands with a thud. 
That make of the Front such a nerve-racking stunt. 
It's the Mud, yes, believe me, the Mud J 

Oh, Bud, 
You'll certainly swear at the mud; 
The gummy and gluey 
And scummy and gooey 
Result of continual flood. 
The swamp-and-muck blend of it, 
World-without-end of it. 
Mud! 

Oh, it gets everywhere, in your eyes and your hair, 

Your mess-kit, your mask and your gun. 
You're caked with its slime and three-fourths of the 
time 

Each shoe weighs exactly a ton, 
The duck boards sink deep in the stuff and you sleep 

Where it fairly soaks into your blood. 
That's what we abhor in this weary old war 

The Mud — boy, you said it, — the Mud. 
[46] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



MUD (continued) 

Oh, Bud, 
You chew it like cows do a cud ; 
This grimy, eternal, 
And slimy, infernal. 
Admixture that comes with the flood, 
This worst-of-all-things to us 
Gosh-how-it-clings-to-us, 
Mud! 

It drags and it sucks at the wheels of the trucks 

And holds up munitions and chow, 
It bogs the big guns that we need when the Huns 

Are raising a horrible row; 
It seeps through the tin that our rations are in ; 

It gets in each bean and each spud. 
And if, while we scoff at our woes, we're bumped off 

Doggone it, they plant us in Mud ! 

Oh, Bud, 
I don't want to lie in the mud ! 
I hope they won't jam me 
Way down in that clammy, 
That jelly-like, smelly old flood. 
That can't-dodge-the-clutch-of-it, 
Always-too-much-of-it, 
Mud! 



r47) 



BUDDY BALLADS 



AERIAL ADVENTURERS 

OUT of the past they roust, 
Spirit of times that knew 
Tourney and reckless joust ; 
They are the chosen few 
Living the old romance 

Playing the knightly game, 
Wielding for flashing lance, 
Bullets that flare and flame. 

Cuirasseurs of the air 

Riding their winged steeds, 
Forth to the clouds they fare 

Heroes of breathless deeds. 
Field of the Cloth of Gold 

Never knew such emprise; 
Knights on their chargers bold 

Swooping across the skies. 

High in the vault above 

Driving a combat Spad, 
We shall find splendor of 

Arthur and Galahad; 
Sheepskin for shirt of mail, 

Yammering gun for lance; 
Ranging the eagles' trail 

Knights of the old Romance. 

[48] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE STUDENT AVIATOR 

THEY gave me army tactics 
They filled me full. of Math. 
They taught me how to build a trench 

And march along a path. 
I had a course in rifle fire 

(Which isn't used in air) 
They drilled me on the bayonet 
Till I had skill to spare. 

I learned to take a plane apart 

And set it up again ; 
I studied motor theory 

For weeks and weeks, and then 
When I looked forward hopefully 

To zooming through the sky 
They said I mustn't flip, because 

I hadn't learned to fly. 

So it was school at Kelly Field, 

And Mineola, too, 
And then they shipped me over here 

And hope sprung up anew. 
But what I got was school again. 

They forced me to endure 
A three months' course at Issoudur 

Which followed one at Tours. 
[49] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE STUDENT AVIATOR (continued) 

For eighteen months of dreary work 

The same, unending round 
They've fitted me to aviate 

But kept me on the ground. 
I joined to drive a chasse plane 

And know war's greatest thrill 
But what I got was drill and books 

And I am at it still. 

It's well enough to ground a man 

Completely, at the start, 
But wherefore keep him on the ground 

Until you break his heart? 
I've studied till the war is done, 

I've hoped and dreamed, but I 
Am sure I'll never drive a bus 

Till I'm too old to fly. 



Cso] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



FUTURES 
(The Pilot) 



■fir HEN I get through wil 
'^ ' of this man's army, 



with this man's war and out 
army, 
The kind of Hfe I'm looking for is one that cannot 

harm me, 
No, not for me the speedy plane I used to pot the Hun 

with, 
A second-handed little Ford will do to have my fun 

with. 
This thing of dodging through the skies has made me 

tense and nervous, 
I'll make my tours in Pullman seats when I am 

through the service. 
And bump to work in trolley cars like other city 

dwellers. 
And thank my stars I'm not behind the blast of air- 
propellers. 



That's me when I 
Don't have to fly 
With army aviators. 
The only time 
I'll ever climb 

Will be in elevators. 
[51] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



FUTURES (continued) 

When I am through with this man's war and out of 
this man's army, 

I'll be a person who'll abhor whatever might alarm 
me. 

For after months of split-tail stunts and wild and 
reckless chances, 

It's me to play things safe and sane in placid circum- 
stances. 

I'll take my risks in auction bridge and penny-ante 
poker. 

Where there's no German Fokker bus to be the little 
joker, 

Let others gamble in the games of danger and endur- 
ance. 

My family'U be old and gray when they get my insur- 
ance! 

I'll never take 

The jobs that make 

A fellow's frame grow thinner; 
I plan to plod 
Acquire a pod. 

And nod each night at dinner. 

My bus? It's that one over there. Some traveler, that 
baby. 

And when I'm through, well, yes, sometimes I'll think 
about her, maybe. 

And dream of shouting "contact, boys," and of her 
motor roaring. 

And taxi-ing along the field and lifting, zooming, soar- 
ing, 

[52] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



FUTURES (continued) 

Just now, what looks the best to me is peace and rest 

and quiet. 
I'm planning for the simple life and hoping, when I 

try it, 
That I won't find this Spad of mine still has the lure 

to charm me. 
And make me dream of this man's war and long for 

this man's army. 

Say, but she's trim. 
And swift and slim 
As through the clouds I weave her, 
And I'll admit 
That when I quit 
I sure will hate to leave her ! 



[53] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



ARCHIE 
(Anti-Aircraft Gun) 

ARCHIE sits on the ground below 
Pointing his nose in air, 
Archie's trying his best to throw 

Shells that'll get me fair, 
He tosses his shoots and spins and curves 

Up where my Nieu-port flits. 
But he isn't hard on a fellow's nerves 
For Archibald seldom hits. 



I'm sneakingly fond of Archie 
Except when he comes too near. 

He adds to the zest of travel 
Round in the ozone here, 

I look down and grin at Archie 
Straffing the atmosphere. 



Archie scatters his puffy shells 

Freely along my trail. 
Filling my path with bumps and swells, 

Up where he sees me sail. 
And if I stand on my tail and stall 

I oftentimes hear his bark 
But it's hardly ever he bites at all, 

So dodging him is a lark ! 

[54] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



ARCHIE (continued) 

A hopeful old dear is Archie, 

He misses ten thousand tries. 
But patiently goes on shooting 

At every old thing that flies. 
Making the birds unhappy 

Here in the pleasant skies. 

Archie's brothers quite frequently 

Join in his air-barrage. 
Seeking to make a hit on me 

Right in the fuselage. 
So I split-tail round and I spin and dive 

And thus, when the party's through 
I'm perfectly safe and much alive 

And — Archibald's healthy, too. 

So here's to your fortune, Archie, 
You plodding old patient Hun, 

May you never lack shells to scatter 
Wherever the air-craft run. 

May you hopefully go on straffing 
And never hit anyone ! 



C55] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



TRIBUTE 

FRITZ? He is all you say, 
Bandit and Hun, that guy; 
But, when he comes your way 
Zooming up through the sky, 
Riding a Fokker bus 

Sitting up in the sun. 
He is a fighting cuss, 
He is a bird, the Hun ! 

Many who sneered at Fritz 

— Thought him a cinch, somehow,- 
Lie, with their planes in bits, 

Shoving up daisies now. 
If you prefer to live 

Rather than tumble, wrecked. 
You will be wise to give 

Jerry his due respect. 

Strapped in his "office" seat, 

Flipping around in air, 
He is a job to beat. 

He is an ace, a bear. 
Dogfight or two man scrap 

He is a peacherine, 
So, when you crash that chap 

You are a bird that's keen. 
[56] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



TRIBUTE (continued) 

Like him? Not me, and yet 

Nevertheless, I feel, 
Fritz, when in air we've met 

Worthy my lead and steel. 
Though I am out to kill 

All of his tribe I can. 
Speaking in terms of skill, 

Fritz is a first-class man. 

Who was it called him "thick," 

I haven't found him so. 
Nary a stunt or trick 

Jerry can't do and show; 
Get him I must, and do. 

Pluck him from out the sky. 
Nevertheless it's true 

Little old Fritz can Fly! 



[57] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE LITTLE GUY 

VT^OU never can tell by a Frenchy's looks 

■■- What kind of a fightin' man he is, 
The hero bird that you meet in books 

Is a husky guy with a noble phiz, 
But I went to a vaudeville show last night 

An' I bought a drink from the waiter there. 
He was four feet seven or so in height, 

But the son of a gun had the Croix de Guerre ! 

He was just a kid with a girlish face. 

An' his weight was ninety or ninety-five, 
His figger hadn't no manly grace. 

His eyes was gentle, but Man Alive ! 
Though he looked too fragile to pack a gun. 

He'd croaked ten Boches, that was his share, 
An' got six wounds in that hell, Verdun; 

So the son of a gun had the Croix de Guerre ! 

With fifty pounds on his slender back, 

He'd march for days till he reached the Front, 
You'd swear he couldn't of borne a pack 

But somehow or other he did the stunt; 
In gas an' shell fire he'd stood the gaff 

An' gone through things that 'ud raise your 
hair, 
His meek appearance would make you laugh, 

But the son of a gun had the Croix de Guerre. 
[58] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE LITTLE GUY (continued) 

So I sits and looks at that puny chap, 

And I says to myself, and knows it's true, 
"It ain't your body that wins a scrap. 

It's the spirit in you that sees you through. 
And the soul of that kid is the soul of France, 

The world's great hope and the Hun's despair, 
The boy's not much to a careless glance, 

But the son of a gun has the Croix de Guerre !" 



[59l 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE ARMY DOCTOR 

HE gives us pills for many ills, 
An' all the pills the same ; 
No matter what a guy has got 

The matter with his frame. 
When we get well from calomel 

He's slipped us by the ton, 
He thinks for sure our rapid cure 
Is something he has done. 

Oh, the Army Doc is a bird that's fine, 
He paints us over with iodine. 
But for all we jeer an' for all we knock. 
He's a regular fellow, the Army Doc! 

For when a "show" is planned we know 

The Doc is on our track, 
Where H.E.'s rain ; to soothe the pain 

Of wounded, crawlin' back. 
He takes his chance in our advance 

With surgeon's knife in hand; 
Where gas clouds lurk he does his work 

— A job I couldn't stand. 

For though I've got kind of a fightin* nerve, 
It's another sort of thing to serve 
In a bloody station where wounded flock. 
An* that is the job of the Army Doc ! 
[60] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE ARMY DOCTOR (continued) 

With probe an' splint he does his stint, 

Without no rest or sleep, 
Until he drops or something stops 

The wounded lines that creep 
To get his aid. An' when he's made 

His final dressin', then 
His nap he takes, an' when he wakes, 
He's on the job again. 

There's many a simple wooden cross. 
That marks the place of a Doctor's loss; 
But many a soldier's cross ain't there, 
Because of the Army Doctor's care. 
He's true blue color that will not crock. 
An' I sure salutes to the Army Doc! 



[6i] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



FRENCHY 

THEY called us Yanks and we called them Frogs 
But what is there in a name? 
fn summer's dust and in winter's bogs, 
We'd seen how they played the game. 
We'd watched 'em march with a slouchin* gait. 

Their packs was a holy fright, 
They rattled an' banged like a local freight, 
But Lord, how those Frogs could fight! 

'Twas "no comprenny," an' "ne parlais," 

With most of them birds we met, 
But we liked each other a lot, I'll say. 

Them poilus is men, you bet. 
Their uniforms fit like a burlap bag. 

Their caps are a joke, for fair. 
Their belts are loose an' their trousers sag, 

But the Frogs in a scrap are There. 

No, they ain't so much when it comes to style, 

They're stubby an' short an* small. 
But there's something fine in their sunny smile. 

An* the light in their eyes, an* all, 
That sure did get us, an' though their ways 

We couldn't quite understand. 
We found, in the worst of our fightin* days. 

The poilus were right on hand. 
£62] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



FRENCHY (continued) 

We called 'em Frogs, an* they called us Yanks, 

But brothers we was, ah, oui, 
An' we didn't laugh at their shamblin' ranks, 

When we thought of their pedigree, 
We fought beside 'em against the Boche, 

Till all of the war was through. 
An' the feller that rides the Frogs, b'gosh, 

Will mix with the doughboy, too ! 



[63I 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE DOUGHBOY 

WE'RE all of us fightin' the war, the job that we 
come over for, 
The rough engineers an' the boys who shift gears 
On the trucks that come up with munitions. 
The shavetails as fresh as the breeze, the busy old 
nosey M.P.s, 
An' the S.O.S. guys, who keep movin' supplies, 
Through all kinds of times an* conditions ; 
But when you come down to the plain fightin' stunt, 

With all of the strain there is to it. 
The heart-breakin' work at the shell-hammered front, 
The Doughboy's the bird who must do it! 

Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 

Grab your pack an' kit, 
A fresh division's needed, 

You've got to pound the grit, 
Can't you hear the shellin', 

See the star-shell's arch? 
Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 

Time for you to march! 

The general looks at the map an* dopes out the plan 
of the scrap. 
His orders are made an* the words are relayed, 
An' the forces for action assemble, 
[64] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE DOUGHBOY (continued) 

The aeroplanes flicker through space, the batteries 
wheel into place; 
A signal, a roar, an' the heavy shells soar. 
The earth an' the atmosphere tremble ! 
But infantry's waitin' in shellholes an' pits. 

Their shelter wherever they make it. 
For though the guns shatter the Hun line to bits. 
It's up to the Doughboy to take it. 



Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 

Out where bullets spurt, 
Eatin' gas an' shrapnel, 

Burrowin' in dirt. 
When the shells have hammered 

Jerry in his nest. 
Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 

You must do the rest! 



Sometimes he has mess tent an* bed, but mostly he's 
up where he's fed. 
Emergency truck, an' sleeps in the muck, 
Curled up, to keep warm, with his Buddy ; 
He stands every kind of a bump, the whiz-bangs, the 
H.E.'s that "crump !" 
The gas shells that plow in the dirt an' go "Pow !" 
The shrapnel that makes the work bloody; 
The cold an' the stink an' the hunger an' thirst. 

He bears 'em an' cusses, but no boy 
Is better at fightin' when things are the worst. 
Than Mr. American Doughboy! 

[65] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE DOUGHBOY (continued) 
Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 

Hear old Jerry squeal. 
How he hates the close work, 

How he loathes the steel! 
When you jumped his trenches, 

Backward Fritz was hurled, 
Oh, Boy, Doughboy, 

Sittin' on the World! 



[W] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE RUNNER 

/^ F all the jobs in this man's war 
^•^ I'd just as soon steer clear of his, 
It ain't a thing I'd care much for, 

To dodge out there where bullets whiz, 
To squirm an' duck where shells have struck, 

An' face m.g.s that bark an' crack. 
While Jerry pots you with his shots, 

An' you can't stop to pot him back. 

It's bad enough to climb the top, 

An' charge the trenches — at a walk. 
But still, when Jerry tries to stop 

Your progress, well, your gun can talk; 
It's tough, all right, but you can fight. 

Give Fritz a bayonet massage ; 
The runner takes your chance, then makes 

His way back through our own barrage ! 

IVe seen a runner start to race. 

Then crumple, bumped off by the Hun; 
I've seen another take his place. 

An' when he fell, another one 
Go stumblin' on till he is gone 

Where shellfire makes the earth a chum, 
I've seen him go, but this I know, 

I seldom see that guy return. 
[67] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE RUNNER (continued) 

I think I got good fightin' nerves 

This game requires 'em, understand? 
But my hat's off to him who serves 
As runner over No Man's Land; 
Retreat, advance, he takes his chance. 
However tickUsh it may be; 

Some guy must get that duty, yet, 
I'd just as soon it wasn't me ! 



[fiai 



BUDDY BALLADS 



ANZACS 

JACQUES is a peach of a fighter. Tommy's a he- 
person, too, 

Tony's a regular fellow ; nevertheless it is true 

Anzacs are "our kind of people," closer than all of the 
rest, 

Though they come out of the north an* south, out of 
the east an' the west; 

Big shouldered, six-foot Australians, wearin' their tip- 
tilted hats, 

Africans sent up from Capetown, men from Saskat- 
chewan's flats, 

Guys out of distant New Zealand, hearin* Brittania's 
call, 

Fightin' like tigers for England, but "our kind of folks, 
after all." 



*Our kind of people," 
From near an* from far. 

Much more like us 
Than like English, they are; 

Look like us, talk like us. 
Fight like we fight, 

Anzacs are "our kind of people" 
All right! 

[69] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



ANZACS (continued) 

Jacques has a way that is pleasant but we can't talk 

with him much, 
Tommy we're likely to row with, round about bar- 
rooms an' such. 
Sort of a neighborhood mix-up, kind of a sociable 

scrap ; 
But, when we meet up with Anzacs, here from all over 

the map. 
Arm-in-arm Buddies we make them, whether on leave 

or in line. 
Raisin' the same style of rumpus, so we get on with 

them fine. 
Somehow we fit with each other, any old place we may 

be, 
Fightin' beside *em in battle, or frolicin' round in 

Paree ! 

"Our kind of people,'* 
An' our style of folks, 
Learnin* our slang, 

Understandin' our jokes. 
Lantern-jawed, long-legged, 

D evil-may-care, 
Anzacs are "our kind of people** 
For fair! 

Part of Britannia's empire, servin* their land an' their 

king. 
Yet, when you look at *em marchin', they have a style 

an' a swing 
More like our troops than the English; so when I've 

watched 'em I've felt 

[70] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



ANZACS (continued) 

They are the Yanks of Alberta, Yanks from the Bush 

an' the Veldt, 
Products of our kind of climate, men from our kind of 

domain, 
Lands that are new an' uncrowded, wide lands of 

mountain an* plain. 
Realms where the wind an' the sunshine give every 

fibre a tang, 
— That's why we get on together, that's why they're 

our kind of gang. 

"Our kind of people," 

From our kind of home 
Where there is space 

For a fellow to roam, 
Where the life's free. 

An' the ozone is pure, 
Anzacs are "our kind of people'* 
For sure! 



t7ij 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE SHAVETAIL 

TO them I'm a "Louie," that's all. 
They hear me with patience and phlegm, 
While I— well, at heart, I just fall 

In something like worship of them; 
There never were such boys before, 

It may be there won't be again. 
My smiling, unscareable, gentle and terrible 
Bully American Men ! 



It*s "Come to salute" when we meet, 
In barrack and billet and street, 
But if I should do as I felt, 
In spite of my bar and my belt, 
I'd hug 'em like brothers, and then, 
I'd take off my cap to my men. 



They view me as sort of a joke. 

Obey me because it's the code. 
But I sort of swallow and choke 

When seeing them march up a road. 
Oh, boy, they're so big-limbed and strong. 

So calm and so cheerful that when 
I march with a crowd of them I'm so darned 
proud of them, 

I want to cheer for my men. 
[72I 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE SHAVETAIL (continued) 

It's "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," they say. 
For that is the service man's way, 
But save for that rule, I've a hunch 
I'd like to be "Bud" to that bunch, 
(Provided they'd let me) for then 
I might reach the heart of my men! 

They'll plunge into hell at the word, 

Come out of it, half of them gone. 
And then, as though nothing'd occurred. 

Pick out a fresh hell — and go on! 
They're humorous, tender and stern. 

And, oh, but it's great to have been 
Along with these cootie-ful, muddified, beautiful 

Gorgeous American Men! 

It's "Louie" they call me, but who 

Is likely to mind if they do? 

They've done the real work in this show, 

I'll say that they have, and I know. 

And, take it from me once again. 

There's nothing on earth like my men ! 



[73] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



TOMMY 

OUEER about Tommy, we can't get along with him, 
Always in wrong with him 
Can't seem to fix it. 
Ought to be chums, but whenever we chat with him 
We hit the mat with him 
Gee, how we mix it! 
He's our blood brother, but, somehow or other 

When we meet Tommy it's "Call for the Cop!" 
Yet when we're waiting in trenches that hide us 
We like to know that old Tommy's beside us 
Ready to climb with us over the top. 

Tommy, oh Tommy, here's lookin* at you; 
We fight you whenever you heave into view, 
But when the guns boom an* there's trouble to 

share. 
Tommy, oh Tommy, we're glad you are there! 

Strange about Tommy, we like the plain style of him, 
Love the warm smile of him 
Never down-hearted 
Yet when we meet him we need the M. P.'s around 
Swarming like bees around 
Getting us parted; 
Blood they say's thicker than water or licker 
Still, it runs fast when we gather, I've found, 
But when barrages our ear-drums are floggin* 

{74J 



BUDDY BALLADS 



TOMMY (continued) 

When a drive starts that is dogged an' sloggin* 
Tommy's a bird we like stickin' around ! 

Tommy, oh Tommy, here's to you, old dear. 
We can't agree, though the reason ain't clear. 
Yet when the game is to shatter the Hun, 
Tommy, oh Tommy, we fight him as one. 

Truth about Tommy is, he stands all right with us 
Though he will fight with us 
When we're together, 
Down in our hearts we admire the brave wit he has. 
Love the grim grit he has. 
Built for rough weather; 
What if we batter each other, no matter, 

When the gas thickens and shells crash an' whine 
When it's close work in a battle that's bloody 
Tommy's our pal an' our chum an' our Buddy, 
We like to know he is next to our line ! 

Tommy, oh Tommy, here's to you, old horse 
You're the style soldier we're proud to endorse. 
Though we may scrap with you when you are 

nigh. 
Tommy, oh Tommy, you're some little guy! 



[75} 



BUDDY BALLADS 



w 



ENGINEERS 

HEN the convoy crawls on a long white road 
Straight to the blazing line. 
While the drivers nod as they guide their load 

On where the star shells shine, 
If a two ten drops with a roaring crash 

The big trucks cease to roll 
And the CO. growls as he views the smash 
And swears at the ten-foot hole; 

"Job for the Engineers, 

Bring up the wrecking crew. 
Shovel and pick v/ill do the trick 
Then we can go on through." 
They're on the spot, you bet 

Soon, with a clash of gears. 
We're on the way for the road's O. K. 

Fixed by the Engineers! 

When the storm troops wait at the river banks 

And each stone bridge is blown. 
And the stream's too deep for the fat old tanks 

And pontoons must be thrown; 
Where the water boils with the shell and shot 

It "Engineers 'toot sweet'*" 
They will lose one-half of the men they've got 

But build that bridge, complete. 

*'Tout d' suite'— right away! 

[76] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



ENGINEERS (continued) 

"Job for the Engineers, 
Never you mind the loss 
Fritz has a hate but the troops can't wait 

See that they get across. 
You won't get no rewards 

Hear any shouts or cheers, 
Bring up your mob for here's a job, 
Job for the Engineers." 

Oh, they mend the wire where it guards the front 

They dig the dug-outs deep, 
And to tunnel mines is their steady stunt 

Like moles that get no sleep, 
They take their chance where the gas clouds lurk 

And I'll say it appears, 
That darn small glory and beaucoup work 

Comes to the Engineers. 

"Job for the Engineers, 

Something that 'can't be done'," 
Nevertheless they'll do it, yes. 

That's how they get their fun, 
Armed with a kit of tools 

Careless of hopes or fears. 
Big jobs or small, you simply call. 

Call for the Engineers. 



[77] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE SMOKES 

SEND 'em over in the daylight 
When there's Boches they can see, 
An* they'll rush 'em with the butt or bayonet ; 
But at night, or in the gray light 
When the dawn is strugglin' free 
You can't trust the crazy dinges on a bet ! 
They get wary at the shadows an' they lose their 
nerve an' break 
At the shells that seem to come from God-knows- 
where. 
They forget that they are fightin' for their dear old 
country's sake. 
An' they simply want to get away from there! 

'Taint for me to criticise 'em 

For I know that they can fight 
When you put 'em in a scrimmage, hand-to-hand; 
But as buddies I don't prize 'em 
When the job is sittin' tight 
Where the shells is makin' powder of the land. 
So in chargin', hell for leather, where a man can see 
his mark, 
You can count upon the smokes for showin' prime. 
But for waitin' an' for stickin' an' for sloggin' through 
the dark 
I would rather have the white men every time ! 



[78] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE REGULAR 

("And Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool, you bet that 
Tommy sees!") 

I'M one of the Regular Army Men, enlisted before 
the war 
When fifteen per was the pay we got — an* learned to 

be soldiers for — 
I joined in the days when Olive Drab was lackin' in 

real eclat. 
An' it wasn't often a doughboy found a "welcome" 

upon the mat. 
I'm a hero now, an* the ladies bow, an' it's pleasant 

enough, — an' yet 
It's worryin' me how long 'twill be till the people again 

forget ! 



'Only a common soldier," 

That's what they used to say 
Though they must of seen I was straight an' 
clean 

The same as I am today, 
I looks at the flags a-wavin', 

I thinks of them times that's past. 
An' I'm sayin' "Yes, it is fine, I guess, 

— How long is it gonna last?" 



[79] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE REGULAR (continued) 

The National guard comes homeward from fightin' 

the ugly Teuts, 
The drafted men get their papers an' put on their 

civvie suits; 
They all of them done their portion, we regulars done 

the same. 
But we gotta go on playin' the steady old army 

game. 
They finished their bit, all right, an' quit; their glory 

will not be lost, 
An' the regular force gets cheers, of course, but — 

I have my fingers crossed ! 

"Only a common soldier," 

It used to be said with sneers, 
An' I still recall every slight an' all 

The scorn of them bygone years. 
Just now I'm a social lion 

Enjoyin' it while I can 
Till the graft goes bust an' they say, "He's 
just 

A Regular Army man, 
A roughneck brute in a khaki suit, 

A Regular Army man !" 



[80] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE MARINES 

SAID the Doughboy, "You Marines 
Made a rep at Chateau-Thierry." 
Said the Leatherneck — three wound stripes on his 
sleeve — 
"We have fought in many scenes. 
An' you fellers make we weary; 
When you say we 'made a rep,' I get a peeve. 
We're the oldest arm of service 
An' the world knows what our nerve is 
An' our rep was made a hundred years ago ; 
By a thousand fights we've gained it, 
Chateau-Thierry just sustained it, 
Which is something else again, believe me. Bo!" 



Said the Doughboy, "Well, it's clear 
We don't hear so much about you 
Since we got a lot of doughboys on the job !" 

Said the Leatherneck, "Look here. 

Though by rights I otta clout you, 
I'll just put a thought or two within' your knob. 

We weren't very great in number 

When we started ; now we slumber 
Under crosses, or the best of us are there; 

And the rest, their job's completed. 

With an arm or leg deleted 
You can't do much further fightin' anywhere!" 
[8i] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE MARINES (continued) 

Said the Doughboy, "You're so proud 
An' you do a lot of struttin' 
An' you talk as though your bunch was all the 
cheese." 
Said the Leatherneck, "Our crowd, 
While your eye-teeth you was cuttin* 
Had been fightin' all around the seven seas. 
Belleau Woods an' Porto Rico 
An' Manila an' Tampico, 
Pekin, China, an* Havana hold our dead; 
An' if we are talkin* strong to 
Boost the corps that we belong to 
It's because there's good an* plenty to be said I" 



rsa] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE YID BATTALION 

THEY took a bunch of Hebrews from New York's 
East Side 
They put 'em into khaki and they made 'em drill ; 
They bronzed 'em in the sunshine and they taught 
'em pride 
Pride in being soldiers who could fight with skill. 



Pallid "cloak-and-suiters" from the sweat shop crowd 

Changed to husky doughboys and were shipped 

to France, 

Marched to front-line trenches, where they did us 

proud, 

All that they had needed was a white man's chance. 



Through the Argonne forest where the Boches lay 
Stormed this Yid battalion in a charge superb. 

Warriors blithe and fearless, who but yesterday 
Overflowed the sidewalks and the Grand street 
curb. 



Valiant, over-eager, they were trapped by Huns, 
Cut off and surrounded in the Argonne Wood, 

Sniped by hidden rifles and by German guns ; 

Did these Yids surrender? No, by God, they stood! 
[83] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE YID BATTALION (continued) 
Out of ammunition and of rations, too. 

Looking every minute in the face of death. 
In war's fiery furnace they were proven true, 

True to all we fight for — to each man's last breath. 

"Death," the Teutons signalled, "is your certain fate, 
But if you surrender we will treat you well," 

Brief, profane, immortal was their answer, straight ; 
Shouted, all together, "You can go to Hell!" 

Rescuers released them, but as white as flame 
Shines their light of glory not to be denied ; 

Alamo, Thermopylae — matched by men who came 
Fighting through the Argonne from New York's 
East Side! 



[»4] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



"BUDDY" 

WHAT does "Buddy" mean? 
It's like this; you see 
All that I can tell is what 
"Buddy" means to me. 

It means a feller you like an' chum with. 
Play an' sleep with an' fight an' bum with, 
Made of the stuff that you're designed of 
Partner, an' pal an' brother, kind of. 
One who shares in the pup tent's shelter 
When the whole blame world is a muddy welter, 
It means that all that you have goes double, 
Luck an' money an' fun an' trouble! 

"Buddy" means there's a guy beside you 
Ready to scrap if the others ride you, 
One who'll jolly you, jeer you, cuss you, 
An' carry you back if a shell should muss you; 
One you'll swear by an' stand the gaff for 
Break your last wet "pill" in half for, 
One you'll lie for an' take the blame for, 
Knowin* it's you he'd do the same for. 

"Buddy" means there's a chap who hands you 
Knocks an' boosts, an' who understands you. 
One to wade with through fire an' water 
Close at hand in the reddest slaughter; 

[85] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



'BUDDY" (continued) 

Who, if you're killed as the battle blazes, 
Drops a tear where you push up daisies, 
"Buddy" means, — why, it don't need study- 
Somebody like my good old "Buddy"! 



What does "Buddy" mean? 

It's like this, you see 
All that I can tell is what 

"Buddy" means to me! 



186! 



BUDDY BALLADS 



"SON FAIRY ANN" 

(Which is Buddy's version of the French *C' ne fait 
rien' meaning, "It doesn't matter," or "what's the 
odds?") 

WAR kind of gets a man in time 
So he just takes things as they come, 
The smells, the sights, the dust, the slime, 

The good chow or the rotten slum, 
If luck goes right or wholly wrong 

He stands it all the best he can 
And takes whatever comes along 
With just these words, "Son Fairy Ann." 



At first he thinks he's gonna be 

A hero, doing noble stunts 
For which he'll get the D.S.C. 

And win a captaincy at once. 
But when he is a private still 

A year from when he first began 
He swallows Fortune's bitter pill 

And simply says, "Son Fairy Ann. 



His girl from home, she throws him down 
His mother's letters don't arrive 

He can't get leave to go to town 
He's wet an' cold an* half alive 

[87] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



'SON FAIRY ANN" (continued) 

His clothes are full of things that crawl 

He fights an' does what others plan 
He sees his closest buddies fall 

An' learns to say, "Son Fairy Ann." 

An' though he may not like his lot 

He sticks, because, to put it terse. 
He's built that way, and, Hke as not. 

If he should change he'd get it worse; 
Thirst, hunger, death, they all are one 

He takes them Hke an army man 
And dreams of home when war is done 

As for the rest— "Son Fairy Ann." 



[88] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



KNOWLEDGE 

I HAD lived softly, trodden pleasant ways, 
Sounded no depths of life, looked on the mere 
Shell of the world, with lazy critic gaze. 
Heard its great voice with inattentive ear; 
War snatched me from the cloying atmosphere 
Of clubs and foyers to adventure high. 

Taught me to feel, hate, love, endure and fear, 
I lived and fought with men and saw them die! 

What spaces I have spanned in these great days! 

How far am I from that glib, insincere 
Cynic who summed existence in a phrase 

And looked on all things human with a sneer! 

One learns the verities when over here. 
Where red war flames along the arching sky. 

And in a life that strips souls stark and sheer, 
I lived and fought with men and saw them die! 



Comradeship I have found where cannon blaze, 

Loyalty to the end, abiding cheer 
In "hell's despite" ; courage beyond all praise 

And life held cheap because a faith is dear; 

Of old I saw the world an ugly smear, 
Not knowing that my sight was all awry 

But war's rough hand swept my dull vision clear, 
I lived and fought with men and saw them die. 
[89] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



KNOWLEDGE (continued) 

Envoy 

Thank God the wrath of war will disappear, 
Yet this it brought me, which I could not buy. 

The memory that through one flaming year 
I lived and fought with men and saw them die ! 



[90] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



FED UP 

ADVENTURE'S fine to talk about, I'll say. 
But I have had enough of it in mine, 
I dreamed about the "glory of the fray" 

Until at last they put me into line, 
And there I learned the beauties of fighting rats 
and cooties, 
And cold and mud and Boches that I met, 
I've known the noise and gore of it, 
I've had enough and more of it 

You bet, 
I'll hit the trail for home without regret. 

I s'pose I'm glad I've seen the thing, at that, 
For I know how I'll swell around at home. 

Tell how I wore a mask and for a hat, 
Sported a nice tin derby on my dome; 

But in my life at present I find it darned un- 
pleasant ; 
This war thing isn't any pleasure tour, 

And I have had enough of it 
For sure, 

It doesn't take a lot to make a cure. 

Don't get me wrong, I haven't any kick, 
I'm here to stay until this job is done 

But when we've won the war and turned the trick 
Believe me, I don't want another one, 
[91] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



FED UP (continued) 

I've seen my share of slaughter and I will cross 
the water 
As thankful and as pleased as I can be, 
Some men ain't had their fill of it, they'll miss, 
they say, the thrill of it, 
Not me! 
When Uncle Sam says "Beat it," I'll agree. 

Some people are afraid when we return 

We'll be a warlike bunch. It makes me grin, 
For most of us have had our chance to learn 
What war is and to hate the thing like sin ; 
Why say, it makes me dizzy to think of getting 
busy 
At work and play like peaceful people do. 
Leave all this dirty, cheesy life and start a soft 
and easy life 
All new, 
Say, after this, no war for me, I'm through. 



[9*] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE HIDDEN THINGS 

THERE'S things a fellow talks about 
To almost anyone. 
Stories he's always reeling out 

Of fighting, work or fun. 
But often j^ou'll go through a heap 

Of life that's hard and grim 
And with some chap you'll eat and sleep 
A year, before he'll speak what's deep 
Down in the heart of him. 



The gentle, hidden tender things 

All locked and sealed away, 
Behind his ready, careless speech 

Of women, wine and pay. 
For all the real and sacred things 

Are rarely on display. 

You'll know some bird who's loud and tough, 

Full of black oaths and such. 
Whose speech is crammed with bar-room stuff, 

And then, some day, you'll touch 
The latchstring to that roughneck's heart 

And find, concealed within, 
Something he's thought of from the start, 
A secret dream he's placed apart. 

From revel, lust and sin. 

[93] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE HIDDEN THINGS (continued) 

Some little thing, some lovely thing 

He's kept and cherished so; 
He's thinking that the light of day 

Will make it fade and go, 
And half afraid, and half ashamed 

He seldom lets it show. 

And that's the way with all the lot 

Who joined to go to war, 
We talk of many things, but not 

Of what we're fighting for; 
Guns, chow and smokes, the last big drive. 

Gossip and news we've heard. 
Who's missing, wounded, dead, alive. 
But, of the cause for which we strive, 

You'll scarcely hear a word. 

For that's one of the deeper things 
That fellows always shove 

Way out of sight, like thoughts of God 
And those of Her you love, 

The truer things, the greater things 
We shrink from speaking of. 



[94] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



AMBITION 

THE mighty tunes that you stand up to. 
That throb and peal with a stately beat, 
Are not the sort that I want to do, 

But the rag whose witchery stirs the feet. 
For when men march through a shell-wrecked 
street 
Or move up into the lines, at night. 

It's ragtime airs that their lips repeat 
And those are the tunes I'd like to write. 

Oh, the tunes men play on a fine tooth comb 

In trench and barracks, on bivouac, 
When there's not a star in the inky dome 

And never a light must stab the black; 

The tunes men hum as with creaking pack 
They slog along to the weary fight — 

Whatever musical art they lack. 
Those are the tunes I'd like to write! 

Let the critics sneer, as the critics will, 

But the tunes men sing where the earth and sky 
Are spewing death, are the tunes whose thrill 

Is somehow magical, fine and high; 

They have a glory none may deny 
Though the airs be simple, the burdens light. 

If they're hummed by men as they fight — and die, 
Those are the tunes I'd like to write. 
[95] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE LOST BUDDY 

PEACE doesn't mean the same to me 
As it would — yesterday; 
Me and my buddy'd planned to be 

Life pardners, all the way 
We thought we'd start a little shop 

After this bloody show, 
After the guns come to a stop, 
But now, it can't be so. 

I'm used to seein' comrades fall 

About me, everywhere, 
I liked 'em and I missed *em all 

But muttered, "C'est la Guerre." 
It was the price that must be paid 

By men who take a chance 
In this great game of death that's played 

Upon the soil of France. 

But this is different, my friend 

Fell in last night's attack. 
Today the war is at an end 

But that won't bring him back ; 
His life was lost in vain, for peace 

Was on the way. His blood. 
Mingled with rains that never cease, 

Seeps through the Flanders mud. 
[96] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE LOST BUDDY (continued) 

So while the others cheer the news 

Of peace, I curse at Fate, 
My buddy's underneath this ooze ; 

His life was spent — too late. 
There is no chance, nor will there be 

To make the Huns repay, 
And peace don't mean the same to me 

As it would yesterday. 



[97? 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE FIGHTING EDGE 

ENGLISH and Belgians, Italians and French 
Fought like grim fury in dug-out and trench, 
More than four years of it — God, what a spell 
Spent in the nearest there is to a hell! 
All of our losses seem tiny and light 
Stacked up beside of their total, all right; 
But this much we did, in the last great attack 
We started Fritz on the trail that leads back! 

Others have lost more 

In battles that cost more, 
Others held eighty percent of the line, 

All that we claim 

Is this share of the fame. 
We started Fritz on his way to the Rhine. 

Down all the ages the world will recall 
Tommy, who, fighting with back to the wall, 
Stopped the Boche gang; and the poets will sing 
Praises of poilus who did that same thing; 
But, when the Fritzies had driven that wedge 
Close, close to Paris, we blunted its edge, 
Smashed it, in fact, and with one nasty crack 
Started the Boches to traveling back. 

Others — you said it — 
Earned lots of credit, 
They fought our fight long before we came in, 
[98] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE FIGHTING EDGE (continued) 
Only, we say 
In a casual way 
We started Fritz on the hike for Berlin! 

We was all fresh, young and vigorous guys, 
We hadn't suffered like other allies. 
They was all tired and weary of war; 
We'd been the same in a year or two more. 
Still, the truth stands, that of all at the front 
We were the lads pulled the victory stunt. 
Doughboys, marines, fresh from over the foam, 
We started Fritz in a hurry for home. 

We didn't know 

He was a foe 
Couldn't be smashed, so we made the attack. 

Others, it's true 

Saw the job through. 
But, it was.U5 that had started him back ! 



[99I 



\^ 



BUDDY BALLADS 



"I'LL TELL THE WORLD" 

TWO service stripes, two wound stripes, too. 
Upon my sleeve. 
It's beaucoup war that I've been through; 

You get me, Steve; 
Through Belleau an' the Argonne drive 

Our crowd was hurled, 
An' me — I'm pleased that I'm alive, 
I'll tell the world. 



Home was my little resting spot 

Before this show 
Since then I've learned an awful lot 

An' now I know, 
For all I've seen of cities gay 

An' seas that swirled. 
The place for me is U. S. A. 

I'll tell the world! 



I once took pride in bein* tough. 

Tough as could be. 
But though this job of war is tough 

It's softened me. 
For after all the battle stress 

Where death is hurled 
You learn to value gentleness, 

I'U tell the world. 

[lool 



BUDDY BALLADS 



TLL TELL THE WORLD" (continued) 
I've faced the luck of war with men 

Of many ranks, 
I wouldn't face that hell again 

For beaucoup francs. 
But now we've finished up the game 

An' flags is furled, 
I'm glad we're through — an' glad I came, 

I'll tell the world! 



[lOl] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



WONDERMENT 

JUST now I'm thinkin' when I get home. 
There's nothin' under the sky's blue dome 
Will ever tempt me to go away, 
I'll settle down with a sigh — an' stay; 
But say, 
I wonder; 
After a while when things grow tame 
Maybe I'll miss this war-time game, 

The sound of the guns that thunder. 
The open life an' the men I knew, 
An* even the hardships we went through! 

Just now I'm wishin' to settle down 

In my quiet job in a little town 

Where there ain't a fret an' there ain't a thrill 

An* nothin' happens, an* never will; 

But still, 

I wonder; 
After a while, when the country store. 
An* the gang that circles the stove's a bore 

I hardly can bear up under. 
Maybe I'll yawn an' stretch an' gaze 
Wistful, into the distant haze. 

Oh, from too much war I may seek release 
But how will it be when there's too much peace? 
I'm yearnin' hard for the home folks, now, 
[102] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



WONDERMENT (continued) 

For the bed that's soft an* the country chow. 

But how, 

I wonder. 
Will it be with me who've rode in ships 
Where the U-boats lurk an' the deck-gun rips 

The salt sea winds asunder? 
Will home existence seem flat an' stale. 
An' me a prisoner, locked in jail? 

When you've lived an' battled an' wandered far 

Home is a sort of a beacon star, 

It leads you back, an' of course you go. 

But a guy gets restless, I've come to know; 

An' so 

I wonder 
If maybe the home things will not pall 
An* I be hearin' the great world call, 

Call in a voice like thunder; 
An*, like a prisoner, breakin' pen, 
Co boundin' out on the trail again 1 



[loaT 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE LESSON 



PRIVATE DOWLIE, careless and flip, 
Sloven in uniform, loose of lip; 

Captain spoke to him, "Dowlie, you 
Happen to be just one of few 



Native Americans I have got; 

The rest are rather, well — polyglot; 

Brave and loyal and strong enough 
But not exactly good non-com stuff. 

I need your kind, but I cannot rate 

A man who's careless, who won't keep straight, 

Who's always shooting a bunch of chin 
And isn't subject to discipline. 

You ought to learn, for your mind's astute; 
That it isn't officers you salute 

But the imiform, and it should occur 
To man like you are, that saying "Sir" 

Is nothing cringing, but just a part 
Of being soldierly, trim and smart. 
[104I 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE LESSON (continued) 

Private Dowlie considered a bit 

And then with ready and Yankee wit 

Answered, "There's sense, 'Sir,' in what you say," 
Saluted smartly, and turned away. 

A few weeks after, with seven men, 

The Captain stood at a cross roads, when 

The night was coming. A German shell 
Landed close and each soldier fell 

Flat on the ground. When the smoke had cleared 
The Captain, wobbly, half-stunned, upreared, 

And started calling his men by name; 
"Martin," "Kratzi." The answer came 

"Safe, Sir." "Schaefer," "Tobenkin," "Black." 
"Safe and sound. Sir," the word came back. 

But the other names brought no reply 

And the Captain sought where the men might lie. 

He groped through the dimness, till he found 
One figure, lifeless, upon the ground, 

Another one near it barely stirred; 
The Captain called, and in answer heard, 

"Corporal Dowlie, Sir." "Are you hurt?" 
"I think I'll die, Sir," but from the dirt 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE LESSON (continued) 

He rose a bit, and though darkness made 
His figure seem like a moving shade, 

He summoned his strength with a pain acute 
And brought his hand to a smart salute 

Then crumpled up, and the captain cried, 
For "Corporal Dowlie, Sir," had died, 

Died the way that a soldier should 

For the lesson he learned was learned— for good I 



UoS] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE QUESTION 

CAME here to fight — an* we did 
Came here to win — an' we won; 
Put Mr. Boche on the grid, 

Basted him till he was done; 
We'd have stayed ten years — a score — 

If the job lasted that long 
But there's no war any more 
So we're all singin' this song: 

Oh men, say when, 

When do we start for home? 

When will our ship 

Begin her trip 
Over the ocean foam? 

Any one know 

When we will go. 
Go on the trail for home? 



Barrack an* Billet an* line 

All of us thinkin' alike, 
"Got any news, any sign 

Showin* we're goin' to hike — 
Hike for the ship sailin' back? 

That's what we're longin' to learn. 
When'll they tell us to pack? 

When do we start to return? 
[107] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE QUESTION (continued) 

Oh men, say when. 

When do we leave for Home? 

The war is fought 

An' now this thought 
Is in each soldier's dome, 

Any one hear 

When we will clear — 
Clear out of France for Home? 

Now that there's no one to fight 

We just hang round an' repeat, 
"Gosh, to be sittin' tonight 

Home, with real dishes to eat; 
Home — that's the smoke, not a tear — 

Still, a man's fancies will roam 
Home to the folks, far from here — 

When do they start us for Home? 

Oh men, say when 

When do we beat it Home? 

Oh Gosh, to see Miss Liberty 
A shinin' through the gloam. 

Say, who has heard the latest word? 
When do we start for Home? 



[1081 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE TWO CROSSES 

THE White Cross of Calvary, it leads the world in 
war 
To gain the true and perfect love that Jesus suffered 

for. 
Ahead of our battalions it glows with wondrous light 
That marks the path of victory we follow in the fight ; 
The white cross of Calvary is shrined in every heart, 
But the red cross of mercy — it plays an equal part. 
And in the hell of pounding guns its magic shall not 

cease. 
The White Cross, the Red Cross shall bring us 

through to peace. 



The White Cross of Calvary shall shed a glory great 
On those who fight for faith and right against the 

hordes of hate, 
But the Red Cross of mercy, it is the badge they wear 
Who seek and save the broken ones amid the battle 

glare, 
The sign of that great service corps which fights no 

foe but pain 
And strives for human salvage in the waste of war's 

red reign. 
And brave hearts and faint hearts may know the 

beauty of 
The White Cross of Calvary, the Red Cross of love. 

[109] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE TWO CROSSES (continued) 
The White Cross of Calvary whereon was crucified 
The Savior of Humanity, a spear mark in his side, 
Shall be our blessed guerdon, but there's the Cross 

of Red 
(Aye, tinged with blood compassionate our Lord and 

Master shed) 
And it shall lift the fallen and bear them back again 
And with a strange new wizardry rebuild them into 

men. 
In all the roar of conflict above the crimson sod 
The White Cross and Red Cross shall do the work of 

God! 



[iio] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE BIG ADVANCE 

/^ LIGHT your pipe up, Buddy, 
^^ And fasten on your pack; 
The footing may be muddy 

Along our forward track, 
But we should worry when we see 

What we are going for; 
We're marchin' into Germany, 

We've won the blooming war. 

There are no shells to meet us 

And our own guns are dumb; 
No m. g. nests will greet us 

With bullets as we come ; 
Our hobnails rasp, our belts all creak, 

We slog past plain and hill; 
No H. E.'s "crump," no "two tens" shriek, 

God, but the air is still. 



Say, this is difl'rent, Buddy, 

Than just a while ago 
When "forward" meant a bloody 

And damned unhealthy show. 
With Boches round the scenery 

By squad, division, corps; 
But now, we're off to Germany, 

We've won the blooming war. 
rm] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE BIG ADVANCE (continued) 

And those we've left behind us 

Upon the fields of France 
Perhaps they'll somehow find us 

And march in our advance. 
The Grand Commander up above 

If what we're taught is true 
Will help them see the glory of 

The thing they helped to do. 

We've marched in wartime, Buddy, 

In dark and cold and damp, 
But now our fires are ruddy 

Wherever we encamp; 
This the time we've fought to see 

The thing we came here for, 
We're off, we're off to Germany, 

We've won the blooming war. 



[II2] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



SPECULATION 

WHEN the war is over an' we can sail 
With our lights a-shinin' free. 
An' we needn't watch fer a U-boat's trail 

Slinkin' under the sea; 
When we kin steam at an easy lope 

An' the decks are clear of guns 
With never a sign of a periscope 
Along o' the track we runs; 

I'm thinkin' at first we'll find it great 

With never a convoy near, 
To plod along on a course that's straight 

With nary a sub to fear, 
Yet, after playin' this war-time game 

Of submarine peek-a-boo, 
I'm wonderin' won't we find it tame 

With nothin' like that to do? 



Yes, after drawin' our every breath 

In the perils that we has known, 
An' playin' at hide an' seek with death 

In the thick of the danger zone, 
Where a Hun torpedo may start to race 

A-streakin' it for our hull — 
Well, after havin' them things to face. 

Won't peace seem a leetle dull? 
[ii3l 



BUDDY BALLADS 



SPECULATION (continued) 

Oh, I'll be glad when it comes, all right, 

An' there isn't no need to ride. 
With the gunner's mate at the five-inch sight 

An' the boats swung overside. 
But I'm thinkin' now, as a feller will, 

That when days of peace come back, 
We'll be missin* some of the old-time thrill 

That we knew on the U-boat track! 



r«i4i 



BUDDY BALLADS 



PRIDE 

THE nearest I got to the front in France 
Was bakin' the army bread at Tours, 
With a baker's apron over my pants. 

Say, I was a hero soldier, sure. 
I done a year in the S.O.S. 

An' men from the front they held the view. 
That I was a kind of a louse; I guess 
That I was inclined to think so, too ! 

Over in France I was just a worm 

To the boys who came from the blazin' line, 
I used to feel that I oughta squirm 

Outa their sight to some hole of mine; 
But now, I'm Home, an' my sleeve is bright 

With two gold stripes, an' they sure look gay 
Compared to the silver ones, all right. 

Of guys who never left U. S. A. 

Say, when you've been for a year or so 

Where all you get is the glassy eye. 
It sure is bully, believe me, bo. 

To have it over some other guy; 
My chest swells up, an' my shoulders square. 

Whenever these silver-stripers pass 
For the service chevrons from Over There 

Are Class; here, Buddy, you get me— Class I 

[lis] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE RETURN 

WHEN we come rolling home again across the 
ocean foam again 
Away from muddy trenches and the noise and smell 
of war, 
Without that job to weary us we won't be stem and 
serious 
And nob!e-looking heroes like some folks are plan- 
ning for ; 
We're mostly young and vigorous and after labors 
rigorous 
We'll sure be good and ready for a frolic or a 
dance. 
We've learned from war, no doubt of it, but when 
we're safely out of it 
At heart we'll be about the same as when we sailed 
for France! 



We've led a life adventurous and only glooms will 
censure us 
If, back from facing hate and death through weary 
days and nights 
Where heavy shells were battering amid a strain 
nerve-shattering, 
We're hungry for the glamor of the laughter and 
the lights. 
You think that we've been taught a lot? Well, it is 
true we've thought a lot, 
[ii6] 



BUDDY BALLADS 



THE RETURN (continued) 

But not so much of sterner things, we've had 
enough of those; 
We've dreamed of sweethearts beautiful and mothers 
dear and dutiful, 
But pondered most on home-made pies, good din- 
ners, baths and shows ! 

When we come rolling home again to tread our native 
loam again 
We won't be greatly different from when we went 
away. 
You'll find some little change in us, but nothing very 
strange in us; 
We'll still be joyous spendthrifts who are strong 
for fun and play. 
But by the pals who're lost to us and war's tremen- 
dous cost to us. 
By all we've seen and all we've known and all the 
work we've wrought. 
When we come gaily back again upon the homeward 
track again 
God help the men who are not true to all for which 
we fought! 



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